


Wake the Dead

by SpecElec



Series: Another Resurrection [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brain Damage, Brain Surgery, Dreams, Family Drama, Family Feels, Flashbacks, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hiding Medical Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Jason-Centric, Lobotomy Reference, Loneliness, Medical Trauma, Mood Swings, Nausea, Nightmares, Recovery, Repressed Memories, Secrets, Seizures, Surgery, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-25 20:37:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13220763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpecElec/pseuds/SpecElec
Summary: Jason's good at burying the past, until it catches up with him. Some injuries run deep.





	Wake the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> My warnings - Tread with caution if this content is a problem: brain injury descriptions or symptoms, surgery, surgeons, fear of medical malpractice. Sorry for any inaccuracies, I did a bit of Google research here, but I'm no professional.
> 
> This is post-crisis Jason. So he's more of an anti-hero than he is right now in the Rebirth verse, mmkay?

Jason Todd is a dangerous man.  
  
A lifetime ago, he'd been a carefree boy. Flipping and spinning through nights of laughter and colorful capes.  
  
Yesterday, a boy scout - today, a criminal. A crime lord, to be precise. Gotham is his playground once more, but in a new and thrilling way. And he won't stop until he's conquered it, every block.  
  
Today, he's lying in wait. Some brazen kids were moving in to steal drugs from the East Siders.  
  
Jason was nothing if not efficient. There were always things to be taken care of, people to deal with, in Gotham. He had no shortage of work.  
  
They're a motley group of semi middle-class looking preteens. Inexperienced and sloppy, they reminded him of himself eons ago. A spunky little boy with a tire iron. But he shoves these memories away, willing them to be buried again in the pile of repressed mishmash in his mind he hasn't found the time to sort through.  
  
Instead, he moves silently down at the docks, following this motley group of kids as they approach the abandoned warehouse. _The East Siders really need to find a more secure place to store their meth,_ he thinks. But what surprises him more is the guns in their hands. _Younger and younger, these days..._  
  
A quip (more sardonic and biting than cute, anymore) on his tongue, and no weapon drawn (they're only children) he moves silently, leaping from cover to surprise the little interlopers, maybe with a little shock and awe that he can pull from his belt -  
  
Suddenly, time slows down. A dense, almost cloying pain begins to thrum in Jason's skull. His reflexes, no longer sharp. His adept sense of balance abandons him.  
  
_I'm out in the open_ , he realized. _I'm out in the open and I'm going to get shot_ -  
  
The gunshot rang out no sooner than he could complete the thought.  
  
_Fall_ , his mind supplied. The training ingrained in his body took over while his consciousness seemed to be standing still.  
  
_Fall or die._  
  
Going completely limp, Jason fell. Though there was a dull buzzing in his head, the clumsy kids had missed. There was no searing pain. He had escaped death again.  
  
Seeing him lying prone, the kids were quick to retreat. "Isn't that guy supposed to be tough?" "Who cares?"  As long as they could get their drugs, no one knew or cared what happened to the Red Hood.  
  
"What's happening?" Jason whispered to no one.  
  
\--------------------------------------------

He was somewhere dark and damp. At first he thought he must be sleeping.  
  
But the silence was too complete, the darkness too dark, for him to be anywhere on Earth.  
  
He knew it somehow before his hands reached out, out to feel the walls of that pine box prison he was locked in. That prison lined with... soft.  
  
Suddenly his breath was very loud, and there was no air to breathe.  
He screamed.  
  
This couldn't be happening. _Let it be a joke. Let it be one of Bruce's tests. Don't make it real. Don't let it be real._  
  
Where was Bruce?

Surely, Bruce knew where he was. Bruce would help him, pry the lid off this plush death trap and pull him from the ground, back into the light.  
  
For about a second, he truly and honestly expected it to happen. Even after Bruce hadn't made it in time before, he'd give him another chance. He'd give him ten thousand chances if he would just save him...  
  
Seconds ticked away. No one was here. Just him and his breathing.  
  
_Breathing. Screaming._  
  
Forcing himself somehow to calm, he fumbled for something, anything to use. Like a belt buckle.  
  
_Dig. Dig. Gotta dig._  
  
It was the only thing he focused on, like a mantra. Cut through the fabric, get to the hard, unforgiving wood.  
  
Belt buckle on wood.  
  
Fingernails on wood.  
  
He'd never forget the sound of fingernails on wood. Worse than on a chalkboard.  
  
Blood everywhere.  
  
Now nails everywhere, and he'd barely made a dent. Using the belt buckle as a tool, he gouged the surface above him again and again. His air was going, and his strength too.  
  
He wanted to take a break. Just take a little break to get his strength up. But something told him it'd be the last thing he'd ever do. So he kept gouging on one spot.  
  
Then the dirt began to fall, more and more...  
  
He took the biggest breath he could manage, and punched the ceiling dead center.  
  
And then.  
  
His muscles screamed as he dragged them upright, and at once he thought he might fall back and be unable to move, crushed by soil. But it was only soil. And as he clawed upwards, it became mud.  
  
Then the mud became the air, the sweet air that he could breathe. And then he might live, might see Bruce again up there.  
  
Mustering strength beyond reason, he dragged his entire body up out of the muck and back into the world.  
  
Rain washed away some of the grime, sweet gorgeous rain. He was free. He could go home, home to Bruce and Alfred -  
  
But something wasn't right.  
  
The world became disjointed then, a thick syrup of shapes, colors and words. Time seemed to distort as well, moving faster or slower depending on where he was. The landscape seemed to change as bursts of lucidity came and went. First he was somewhere, and the next thing he knew, he was somewhere else entirely.  
  
Wasn't he trying to go home? Where was home? Where was he?  
  
Where was Bruce?  
  
The dark world made no sense. A headache thrummed in his temple, making him nauseous.  
  
But he had to go home. He had to find Bruce.  
  
One minute he was walking in the forest, rain sheeting down, thinking about a road. Wasn't there a road somewhere near here?  
  
The next minute, there was a blinding light. Everything went sideways. There was a woman screaming.  
  
After that, things only became more disjoint. More impossible to understand. Scarier.  
  
Where was Bruce?  
  
"Oh my GOD! Call 911!"  
  
Maybe these people knew where Bruce was.  
  
"What's he sayin'?"  
  
"I think he's saying 'Bruce'. He's out of it."  
  
Then the lights are red and blue and there are sirens everywhere.  
  
Maybe these people knew where Bruce was.  
  
"Watch his neck, we need a brace."  
  
"Officer, I swear I didn't see him, he came out of nowhere!"  
  
There was a stretcher, there was an ambulance, there were multiple pairs of hands on him.  
  
"He's asking for a 'Bruce'. Don't worry, kid. We'll find your family."  
  
"Shh, don't fight. We're here to help, hon."  
  
Dizzingly, the scenery changes again and he's on a stretcher and it's moving, being wheeled down a hallway. _Hospital_ , he remembers.  
  
"Hey, buddy. Stay with us. You're one lucky kid to have made it this far."  
  
\--------------------------------------------  
  
Jason wakes in darkness, face wet with tears he doesn't remember.  
  
Dreams of that night had rarely been so vivid, but the lingering feelings of hurt and abandoment now seemed unavoidable.  
  
He'd tried so hard to forget, to deny. To pretend that he didn't need Bruce, didn't need his family.  
  
And he doesn't. Not anymore.  
  
Alone, he swipes at the remaining tears that leak out without his permission. Just a dream. Just a nightmare. His head still aches, and it's tender and sore when he prods the area gently.  
  
He won't be sleeping again tonight.  
  
\--------------------------------------------  
  
The next night is quiet. But when he hears about some dealers stirring up trouble, bragging about taking some territory, he has to get into action. Can't have that.  
  
He won't be like Bruce, and just let the criminal element walk all over him. He'll reinforce his power no matter what it takes.  
  
Despite the achey muscles and the dull aura of headache, he wills his body to proceed to the abandoned lot, and he lies in wait in one of the buildings above.  
  
They'll be here. They always meet here, and this time, he'd be first on the draw. And he will wait.  
  
Hours tick away, hazy and slow. Just like Bruce, he won't leave, won't give up. But he's nothing like Bruce, not really -  
  
The seizure is sudden and debilitating, a lightning bolt of tingly discomfort.  
  
He's lost control of his body. Again, the Red Hood hits the floor on his side, gasping for air as the convulsions begin.  
  
Rarely has he felt true fear since his resurrection. He lives with pain each day, so he has no fear of pain.  
  
But this, he doesn't know what this is. This is convulsing, swimming vision and nausea, and it's like he's been shocked. His body won't respond to his commands.  
  
And that's what scares him the most.  
  
The spell ends, and suddenly Jason remembers how to breathe.  
  
Only the red helmet kept him from bashing his own brains apart here in this hovel.  
  
A pang of strange loneliness settles over him as he gulps air. No one was here for him, he could have easily died once again up here with no one to save him. No one to care.  
  
It could be worth formulating a fake identity in order to see a doctor. But what might a doctor tell him? That he's dying? That this is the beginning of the end (again)?  
  
The thoughts are too much right now. He might sleep right here. Why go home?  
  
What home does he have left?  
  
\--------------------------------------------

"Look at him move."

Dick is concerned. The footage of the Red Hood, playing back on the Batcave computer, seems to tell a tale of confusion and worry.  
  
"Hnn. He's slower. He seems... dazed."  
  
Bruce analyzes each movement of his son, and he knows them to be abnormal. They're tired moves, too careful and restrained for the Red Hood's style.  
  
"But then, I found this." Dick hits a button on the console.  
  
It's parking garage footage. The Red Hood faces a couple of gang members and aims his weapon.  
  
Then, he collapses to the ground and begins to convulse. The members beat him savagely, taking whatever it is they came for and leaving Hood for dead.  
  
Dick watches Bruce watch the footage. A muscle works furiously in Bruce's jaw as he observes.  
  
"And he's still out there? Like this?"  
  
"Must be." Dick sighs.  
  
Bruce's frown somehow gets ever deeper. "Not for long."  
  
\--------------------------------------------  
  
"Hood! Stop!"  
  
_Oh, hell._ Not him. Grayson always yells just like a cop.  
  
"Scram, circus boy." It's only the last person Jason wants or needs to see on these rooftops. He's on speaking terms with the Bats, but he keeps them all at a comfortable distance.  
  
"Jason, look." It stops him dead in his tracks. Dick's voice is quiet and soft, nothing like the voice he had used as Batman.  
  
"Don't call me that." Jason growls.  
  
Dick sighs, not long sufferingly, but seemingly out of frustration and worry.  
  
"If you won't come with me, go to a hospital. Go to Leslie. She'll help."  
  
It wasn't just about the aches and pains. It was about everything bound to come with it. He wouldn't go to a hospital, and he wouldn't visit... that person...  
  
"Who the hell is this Leslie?" Jason says.  
  
Dick blinks. "Are you serious? Look, this is your life. Someone has to look out for you. And if you don't get help, you could... could..."  
  
Jason is left staring back. "Leslie?" Words, at times, could act as strange puzzles. Faces and names were hardest of all.  
  
"Dr. Thompkins. Crime Alley? You know her."  
  
_Oh._  
  
Jason turns away decisively. "I'm doing fine and I won't be going. You don't need to worry about any reasons why, Dickie."  
  
"Jason, Bruce is worried." Dick says quietly, reaching out to him.  
  
"Get the fuck _off_ of me!" Jason snarls. Dick steps away, not entirely surprised at the burst of rage, but taken aback by how quickly it seemed to manifest.

"Ok." Dick whispers, watching his brother sidle down the fire escape to the squalid alleyways below, the only home he knows. "Ok, Jason. When you're ready, we'll be here."  
  
\--------------------------------------------  
  
Stupid Dick and his stupid concern, making up lies about Bruce just to catch him off guard.  
  
He won't fall for it.  
  
Nightwing, Oracle, Robin. All of them are just stoolies for the Bat. They're going to trap him and stick him in a cell somewhere.  
  
Fuck that. He needs his freedom. Freedom to work, freedom to save Gotham. Don't they see? Why don't they see?  
  
He's been able to control and channel his rage before, but now it swells and ripples, becoming an uncontrollable beast surging within him.  
  
The anger is enough to make him see red, and he finds he has to pop the helmet off just to breathe.  
  
He's gonna kill someone. He's really angry enough to go and kill someone. Maybe Bruce. Or maybe save that for another day, once he's got everything planned out nice and perfect -  
  
His throat tightens, and hot bile suddenly bubbles up.  
  
Then he's spilling his guts all over the wet cardboard boxes in the alley, his sick combining with all the filth and all the grime.  
  
It seems fitting, for Gotham. This wretched alleyway is as good a place as ever for him to lose his lunch. He's probably desecrated some homeless person's bed. But he can't help the way his broken body makes him feel - helpless and vulnerable, even with all the investment in body armor and weapons.  
  
Coughing and spitting, Jason fights back the overwhelming urge to cry as he limps away, searching desperately for a safe place to pass out.  
  
\--------------------------------------------  
  
"He doesn't seem to think there's a problem." Dick sighs. It would only cause a fruitless firefight to try and bring Jason home if he didn't want to go. His stubbornness rivaled Bruce's.  
  
"I'm not surprised." Bruce murmured. He had raised Jason, after all.  
  
"Where do you think he got that from?"   
  
"Hrrn."  
  
"Do you want me to go find him again?" Dick was never one to give up on his brother.  
  
Bruce shook his head. Decisive. Facing up to something he'd been putting off, in a sense. "No, you've done all you can. I'll take over."  
  
\--------------------------------------------

Bruce could remember the boy he'd lost. The memories were still so clear, indelibly printed on his heart.

He couldn't help but think of a day long ago, lost to time, a time of youth, when Jason still lived - _lived and breathed_ \- within these walls.  
  
"No! I'm not gonna just stay in bed." Jason pouted.  
  
"Yes you are, young man."  
  
Jason gave Bruce a nearly shocked look, as if no adult had ever talked to him that way.  
  
It made sense. A child used to being smacked into submission could no more understand tender loving care and concern than a squirrel could understand nuclear physics.  
  
"I wanna study for tomorrow's geography test and you have to study at a _desk_ , Bruce. Everyone knows that." Jason gave an ugly cough and turned to his books, spread out across the surface in front of him.  
  
"You're not going to school tomorrow." Bruce asserted.  
  
If it were in different circumstances, Bruce might have cracked a smile at Jason's shocked look. School was the second most important thing to him, other than being Robin.  
  
"Bullshit! You don't know how much better I'm gonna be tomorrow. I had antibiotics today." Jason whined.  
  
"You had half, and you spat the rest out. And watch your language. Now get to bed." Bruce was really getting this parenting thing down. He'd thought Dick was trouble, but Jason was rewriting the rulebook on parenting every day.  
  
"No, I shan't." Jason proclaimed willfully. He'd been reading his Shakespeare compendium for hours before studying for this test, Bruce noted. That, and much time spent around Alfred in the kitchen.  
  
Bruce wasn't one to banter for minutes on end. He simply plucked Jason up and plopped him on his bed, drawing the sheets around him before he could protest further.  
  
"I wanna be better now!" Jason sulked. Being manhandled by his guardian was a common outcome if Jason didn't comply readily with his edicts, but it always left him a little disgruntled.  
  
"Then you need to settle down and get some sleep." Bruce said quietly, sitting on the bed near his son.  
  
Minutes later, the boy was asleep thanks to a hand that stroked his hair back from his forehead, and quiet promises that tomorrow he would be much better.  
  
But now, it made Bruce slightly ill himself to think of Jason, possibly concussed, and doing nothing to care for himself. Seizing, no doubt in a lot of pain. There were so many things that could be wrong. And there were possible outcomes he didn't want to, couldn't, think about...  
  
It was his child's life on the line. He wouldn't run out of time again. Failure wasn't an option.

Like it or not, Jason was coming home, kicking and screaming if need be.

\--------------------------------------------  
  
Chatter on the street was about a large drug transfer at the dock.  
  
Racked with sleeplessness, a migraine which would not abate nor fade away, nausea that made it hard to walk in a straight line, and an only tenuous grip on reality, Jason willed his body to rise and load his guns. He would take it easy tonight. He would just be an observer to make sure those fucking dealers stayed in their lane, and that was all. Feeling like this, Jason didn't think he could even lift a finger against the Condiment King. But he'd dealt with much worse before. Even though the symptoms were undeniably getting worse over the past few days, insomnia clouding his judgement and slowing his movements, he knew that he had nowhere safe to turn. He was locked on a disaster course with either doom or destiny, maybe both. But he wouldn't know until he got there.

The docks are so disturbingly quiet that Jason already knows it's a trap.

_Good. Let them come._

Let them destroy him, cut him to pieces, then drag those pieces to the four corners of the Earth and bury him there, so he can never wake up underground again. He wants Gotham's darkness to wash over him, like a force. He won't be like Bruce and submerge himself in it, somehow remaining his own person with his own values despite washing himself in the darkness night after night. Jason will be consumed by it. As long as he never has to face certain things, as long as he can just keep running, keep distancing himself from false hopes of love and family, he'll be able to live free, free of the doubts, of the fears.

When he sees the Bat, he doesn't recognize him at first. Then he suddenly recalls it all, bright and vivid like he's living it again. He's eleven years old and he's holding a tire iron. Batman is standing over him and he looks about ten feet tall. But Jason isn't scared.

He should've been afraid. He should have screamed and run away, but he didn't. He let the Bat take him from the streets and whisk him away into madness. He wasn't afraid then. But he is now.

And the Bat looks the same as that day. But more determined. Less jocular.

And the others were waiting in the wings. Robin. And Nightwing. As if they needed to be brought into this, too.

"You're coming with me." he grinds out, that gravel voice familiar and cold all at once.  
  
"That's what you think!" Jason hisses. Tossing the smoke bomb, Jason moves to disappear.   
  
Finally, he'd given the Bat the slip. This was his way out. His body ached to run. Leave town. Maybe leave Gotham entirely, where these nasty memories could no longer hurt him. No more Gotham. No more family trying to worm its way into his life. No more anything, in fact.  
  
That was when the world disintegrated into streaks of purple and dark red. Pitching forwards, Jason recognized the aura of an oncoming seizure.  
  
This promised to be the worst thus far, as each convulsion rattled through him, coherent thought began to slip.  
  
It was too late to run. They had already caught him, were holding him fast. Any fight he could give at this point was merely a pathetic display.  
  
The concept of fighting became a distant memory as some primal urge calmed his rage, and called to him to relax.  
  
He didn't move to fight them.  
  
Didn't want to yell. The Bat was barking orders, now that was a familiar sound. It didn't occur to Jason that the orders were being yelled at him, to be calm, to keep still.  
  
Didn't want to move. The tremors ended at last, leaving him limp and exhausted. Bruce's arms were around him, now.  
  
He was weak and he was tired, which meant it was time to pass out. A burst of neediness compelled him to curl into Bruce's hold. Something familiar.

_Warmth. Love._

Consciousness left him, then.   
  
\--------------------------------------------

The next collection of days were a blur to Jason, a jumble of strange feelings. As he weaves in and out of consciousness, voices filter in and out of earshot, but a strange sense of peace pulls him back into sleep each time. Each time he floats into lucidity, someone new is there. But his memory proves unreliable for some.

"Jay."

That's Bruce. _Everything is fine._

"Jason, please get better. You're giving Bruce a coronary. Please..."

Dick is his brother. _Everything's okay._  
  
"Shush, dear boy. You desperately need your rest."

Jason smiles. _Alfred._ "'Tis but a scratch, Alfred." This isn't the time to quote Mercutio, but it won't stop him.

"It's really gonna be ok, you know? Despite the fact that you've tried to kill me, I can't help but feel a little pity for you since you got here."

 _Who is that kid?_ He doesn't know a kid like that, like an upper class Gothamite with long hair. Does he? "Do I... know you?"  
  
"Todd, you really are quite the idiot, right?"

 _This kid is angry._ Little and angry. "You're Talia's, right?" That's all he can remember.  
  
"Look, um... is there anything I can get for you? Anything at all?"

He smiles. He has no idea who this girl is or what she's doing in the Cave. "A smoke would be pretty damn nice, blondie." He passes out once more.  
  
"Don't worry. Hold on."

All he knows is that this girl is Bruce's daughter. "Ok. I will."

 _Everything is not okay._ Someone needs to tell him what the hell is going on.  
  
\--------------------------------------------

The next time he awakes, there is discomfort and confusion, distinct from that of the past few days. Painkillers. Heavy sedation. He knows this feeling. His headache hasn't gone away.

Consciousness is slow and hazy. But he's still alive, despite it all.

Jason moans softly, turning his head and eyes away from the lights in the Cave. Mistake. His head is throbbing even still. But he must be much better now that he's fixed his sleep debt. Now he only has to leave here, before - 

Desperately, Jason attempts to leverage himself out of the bed. He didn't expect to fall flat on his face like a toddler. Groaning, he somehow pulls himself back into the bed and lies there, catching his breath, willing himself not to cry. He can't _walk_. What more can he lose?

He does feel different. Different and wrong.

His head is wrapped in bandages, and he can't see straight at all. Someone had dressed him in pajamas at some point. _Why can't I remember?_

But his escape attempts are quickly foiled by the long-haired Gothamite kid. That's when it hits him like a thunderbolt.

_Tim Drake. He replaced me._

"Hi." the kid says, seemingly unruffled by Jason's wide-eyed confusion. "Do you want me to get Bruce for you?"

Jason swallows. His throat's very dry. How many days has it been? "Why you... say that?"

That didn't come out right. What he's meant to say was "Why would you assume I'd want to speak with the person who won't kill my murderer?"

Even forming a sentence is too much to ask. Jason wanted to swear, wanted to scream. How could he be like this? Had they done this to him?

Or had he just done this to himself?

Most of all, he wants Tim Drake to leave.

"Jason, I'm only asking because... well..." Tim fidgets. 

"Wha-"  
  
"You've been asking for Bruce since you got here. Um, you had surgery."

 _Of course._ He couldn't remember it, but... "Wu-" 

"It's... okay, all right?" Tim smiled a bit patronizingly, like he wasn't sure if Jason were about to attack him or start crying.

Tim backs out of the med bay like he's a lion tamer avoiding a confrontation with some unpredictable beast. Jason can hear him whispering outside, over the comms. 

That means Bruce will soon be here.

Jason lets his head fall back onto the pillows and moans at the motion. He'd rather be anywhere, anywhere but here.

And he drifts...  
  
\--------------------------------------------  
  
That moment when they were wheeling him into surgery, back then. On the night he'd clawed himself out of a pine box, willing himself to return to a dark and unforgiving world. There was something he had either forgotten, blocked out, or ignored.   
  
"We've got severe blunt trauma to the brain and extremities, Doctor E. Where to?"  
  
"Send him into O.R. 3 for emergency surgery. Amy, I'll want you assisting."  
  
"Got it!"  
  
Something seemed wrong. Why were they making all these decisions for him? Wasn't anyone going to ask him if he wanted to be operated on? What were they going to do? Would it hurt? Shouldn't someone call Bruce to tell him what's going on?  
  
He wanted to scream at them to call Bruce Wayne _right now_ and tell him Jason Todd, his adopted son, was at the hospital, for what he couldn't remember, but he didn't want to go into surgery without Bruce there. But he couldn't move, couldn't speak, could only watch the events play out in front of him like a movie.  
  
And that voice. That surgeon seemed so nonchalant, somehow cordial and relaxed while still being so cold and detached. As if it were just another day at the office for him.  
  
Sure enough, he was in the O.R. and everything seemed to be happening at once.  
  
Someone had taken what was left of his clothes and now they were restraining him, with thick leather straps, the sting of an IV being inserted followed, and then someone forced his head back and he could hear the buzz of a trimmer near his ear. In his state, Jason could not connect the significance of having his head shaved with the fact that he needed brain surgery. The noise was confusing and unwelcome. Everything was unwelcome.  
  
The people in green latex masks, the blinding lights; somehow the episode of The Twilight Zone where everyone was transformed into pigs wandered into his mind, of all things.  
  
The constant beeping and droning of machines. The flat voices, speaking words he couldn't understand, none of them directed at him in comfort. Where was Bruce? Why wasn't Bruce here to tell him everything would be all right?  
  
The strong smell, strong enough to taste, of antiseptic, near enough to make his eyes water, permeated everything. It was beyond sterile in here. Antiseptic and latex.  
And the pain still had not abated.  
  
Questions reeled through Jason's mind, but slipping in and out of consciousness, he could not speak.  
  
Why weren't they telling him anything?  
  
_Where was Bruce?_  
  
What did he need surgery for?  
  
_Where was Bruce?_  
  
Why were there so many people in here?  
  
_Where was Bruce?_  
  
Someone shined a penlight into his eyes and Jason bitterly wondered why that was necessary with the overhead O.R. lights on full blast. They hooked him up to what seemed like a ridiculous number of monitors.  
  
"He's concussed. Severe."  
  
"We have no history on him. He looks maybe 12, 13."  
  
"Call Evans from pediatrics."  
  
"Where's that anesthesiologist?"  
  
Jason is so confused, he almost feels like crying, even though that's for babies and he won't do that. He wants to see Bruce now more than he's ever wanted to see anyone.

Then he can faintly hear Amy and Dr. E, but he can't see them. They must be elsewhere, farther away in the room, and he's blinded by the lights anyway.  
  
"Doctor Elliott, what do you think the chances are for a patient like this?"  
  
"Amy, you're only halfway through your residency. You'll learn to judge patient risk with time and experience. It's hard to say without really digging in there..."  
  
_The snap, snap of latex gloves._  
  
"...but truth be told, with blunt force trauma to the frontal lobe like this, sometimes they just end up vegetables if there's not enough left in there to reconstruct, you know? I'd say maybe a 10% chance that they come out looking and acting anywhere near the way they were. In most cases. But since there's swelling, we might need to remove a little, too."  
  
_Remove?_ Jason wondered how a surgeon can sound so professionally clipped while still sounding jovial and easy-going, as if a surgery like this is just a routine walk in the park. Fear, nausea and confusion gnawed holes around his heart as he realized that the man sounds something like one of Bruce's socialite friends. _Bruce._  
  
"Bruce," Jason moaned, out of sheer want if nothing else, as if that might make him magically appear.  
  
They clap an oxygen mask over his face and something warm begins to course out of the IV. Everything becomes fuzzier and thicker than before.  
  
"Honey, who is Bruce?" someone finally asks him.  
  
For a moment, Jason thinks he might slip into unconsciousness before he can tell them.  
  
With his final burst of lucidity, the answer comes as naturally as the answer to a math question in school.  
  
"He'sss my dad."  
  
Jason's next thought it that that didn't seem like the correct answer, but soon after that everything goes mercifully black, and all light and noise cease.  
  
\--------------------------------------------

When Jason wakes, he's lying in a room in the Manor that he knows they use for convalescing when the Cave is too drafty and the injuries too severe.

_It was only a dream. But it really happened._

And it had happened again. _Surgery._ They cut him up without asking again. _Damnit_.

The stitches were soft and tan, not the sharp, angry black crosshatching of last time. (There's a mirror on the opposite wall. He considers demanding that they take it down so he doesn't have to see how he looks right now.) It had been a rush job, back then. But this time, they took their time. Someone was taking pains to do it right. 

Whatever they did made him a bit more... stable than before. He can think in a linear fashion. But the painkillers and sedation muddle his thoughts, and everything seems like static.

The recovery is painful, and even dosed with the best painkillers money can buy, Jason won't sleep. Bruce ends up reading Shakespeare for him, sometimes for hours. It reminds Jason of another time, but doesn't recapture it. Too much has changed. He's not a little boy anymore.

Dick holds the bucket while he pukes, so that's nice.

Alfred comforts him, when he really needs it. His soothing presence makes things somehow more bearable. 

But he can only wonder whether Batman had saved his life, or just given him a second chance at it.

\--------------------------------------------

Bruce hadn't wanted to deal with Thomas Elliott. He was just another insane criminal. But he was possibly the only one in the city with the gift necessary to heal Jason.

With two heart-stopping revelations.

The first, "If I'd operated any later, he'd be a vegetable. Just totally unresponsive."

The second, "I operated on this kid three years ago. Had no idea he was yours, Bruce. I thought you had enough of those ankle-biters already."

It doesn't take Bruce long to comb the medical records for a boy matching Jason's description. This is his chance for the knowledge that has eluded him for so long.

A John Doe in a convalescent home, his status "unknown". Security cameras captured him waking and leaving the facility all by himself, despite losing much of his brain function. He existed at an advanced stage of coma, not responding to any stimuli for an entire year. No parents, no one coming to care for him. He didn't depend on a ventilator or feeding tube, as the coma was not quite that advanced. If he had, they likely would have pulled the plug after waiting a reasonable amount of time for someone to come forward.

But Bruce follows the record back, back to Gotham General and there, cruel truths await. There are pictures of his boy, his eyes taped over with gauze, a tube jammed down his throat, covered in burns and cuts. The gauze around his head is bloody in front indicating a severe head injury. The record gives a police report of a boy found walking, dressed in a suit (the Armani they had to pick for him, Bruce never bought an Armani suit again after that), hit by a car of all things. And a report of a surgery, to stem the bleeding in his brain.

The bleeding from the beating that the Joker gave Robin, all those years ago. The blood from that wound still flowing, deep within Jason's brain. An old wound that even the Lazarus Pit never fully healed. A slow bleed from a well-placed strike with a crowbar.

Now the story seems to unravel, one report feeding into the other. Jason had been treated at a hospital funded by Wayne money, and Bruce had never known. What good was being the World's Greatest Detective if you can't protect the people you care about? Bruce's heart aches for his mistake. He should've known. He should've been there, preventing this whole downward spiral from happening.

He should've _known_.

\--------------------------------------------

Bruce sits with him, quietly relating the facts as if they're normal, routine things to report.

"Jason, you went into surgery, about five days ago. You were here about three days before that. And Thomas Elliot operated on your frontal lobe. When you... were hurt, you had internal injuries... The only way to ease the swelling was to remove tissue. Despite the Lazarus Pit being what it is, it can regrow tissue and revitalize existing telomeres. But when it regrows missing tissues, it doesn't use a surgical process to do so. It regrew your brain cells where you needed them. But it couldn't fix the... deeper injuries. It was neuroplasticity that allowed your new brain cells, those the Pit regrew, to be used. But while you retain knowledge of who you are, you... have changed."

This was a topic Jason wanted to avoid. "How in the hell did you get that jerk to operate on me? And who the hell helped him do it?" Jason asks.

"I paid them to."

"I thought he hated you." Jason murmured.

"I paid them _a lot_ of money."

"How much?"

"Don't worry about it."

The thought of that sicko, literally with his hands in his brain, while Bruce sanctioned it, was quite nearly enough to make Jason vomit once more.

"He stopped the brain bleed from continuing. Your swelling went down by thirty percent and dropping. You won't get any worse."

"But?"  
  
"Your seizures need to be controlled by medication, and you'll need therapy in order to regain a few skills. You'll improve. You'll recover here." Bruce looks away. "You'll live." _This time_ , goes unsaid.

"But I'll never be what I was."

Bruce looks down. "I have access to the best medical personnel this world has to offer."

Jason blinks. "I thought that he - no."

"What?"

Jason finds himself talking, voice raspy from disuse, the words spilling out, no doubt due to the drugs. And once he starts, he can't stop. "I thought you told him to... to lobotomize me. That you don't want to deal with me anymore. Healing me would just be your cover story. You want me to be like that little kid, the one you really love. So if you lobotomize me, it should make me complacent and 'happier' and that's exactly what you want, so... did you? For my own good, for your convenience, did you? So that I'd forgive you? Cut my strings and make me a lifeless puppet? Or better yet, replace them with your own? I wouldn't put it past you to implant a chip or one of your other contingency devices in my head for your benefit. Something to make me calmer, nicer, more compliant, more understanding. More moral, maybe? Or just skip the quick fixes and assume direct control over me?"

It seems to Jason that nothing is ever private, intimate or sacred enough for Bruce to not manipulate. His control reaches deep, past what any normal person would do. And his children are the most direct "beneficiaries" of that control. 

Jason lets his words cut deep because he knows it'll hurt. Anything to get out of here faster. "I'm being civil with you now. But I'm not sure if this is just the real me, or what you had him do. And if it is the surgery, lobotomy, whatever, then that means none of this matters."

Bruce's frown has redoubled itself into a sort of grimace. It's hard to tell if he's angry or just concerned.

He pats Jason's hand and sees himself out of the room with a, "You're not lobotomized. You're tired. You just need your rest."

 _Let yourself believe that_ , Jason thinks as the door gently shuts.

\--------------------------------------------

"Jason."  
  
" _No!_ I'm gonna leave. Live by... myself. And take care of myself."  
  
Jason can't hold back a few tears anymore. He already knows the answer.  
  
And Bruce, having all the tact of an elephant, isn't sure how to handle it. Though he knew, from research, that some immature behavior was a common side effect of recovering.  
  
"I'm not sure that's a good idea right now." Bruce says carefully, like he's trying out the words. Trying to remember how to parent Jason.  
  
So this is how it ends, Jason thought bitterly. Now that his mind was a little clearer, his recovery was progressing.

Alfred and Dick were doing a lot to help him re-learn how to walk. Alfred had him on a strict medication schedule, and so far, no seizures had recurred. And the others stay out of his way, like they're afraid of him. And why wouldn't they be? To them, he's just a crime lord.

So why wasn't he cured enough to leave?  
  
"We're going to talk." Not can we talk, not let's talk, not even we need to talk.  
  
"There's nothing to say." Jason huffed.  
  
"I'll do everything in my power to heal you." You know that, goes left unsaid. "You'll stay with us."  
  
Bruce just idly pats Jason's shoulder, like that's going to make everything better.

"I want my guns back." Jason says.

"No guns." Bruce sighs. "Not in this house."

\--------------------------------------------

Bruce finds himself feeling deeply guilty in asking, especially now that Jason is his captive audience and in no condition to lie.

But his neurotic nature has to know the truth. 

"Jason. Did you -"

"Talia helped me replace the coffin. And you never knew." Jason whispers.  
  
So it was all truth, then. Yet still, once piece left missing. "But how did you -"  
  
The heavy drugs loosen Jason's tongue. "I don't know. I swear to God. I'm being serious. The first thing I remember is waking up in that coffin."

Bruce started. "Waking up..."

_Oh, god._

Robin wasn't trained to be buried alive. But he knew how stubborn Jason was.

Even when Bruce had been placing those sensors on that coffin, he'd been thinking of grave robbers, eager to collect a hefty ransom for his son's body. He hadn't even allowed himself to be so optimistic, to imagine a contingency in which Jason returned to life. So there was no need for a sensor, if someone broke _out_. Even with all of Bruce's tendencies to obsess over possibilities, he hadn't let himself embrace that one. The idea, the glorious and somehow terrifying idea that his son could return to him. His father hadn't returned to him. His mother hadn't returned to him. Why would his son?

"Oh, Jay." It's all Bruce can say. Jason stares forward, eyes glazed from the sedatives.

\--------------------------------------------

It's a week later and Jason still can't understand how Bruce hasn't kicked him out yet.

He can walk, he can follow a train of thought, and he's capable of reliably taking the pills that are keeping his convulsions in check.

His language processing isn't perfect, but the headaches are few and far between.

Some things are still lacking. But Bruce only tells him that it's going to take time.

He's been on a bland diet for weeks, and Cassandra and Dick are sneaking him treats from the kitchen to make up for it. He can't figure out why they care.

Nor can he understand why Tim feels the need to read to him when he's caught in a migraine.

He even vaguely appreciates Damian letting him pet his big, slobbery dog.

They've been treating him like he's a real member of the family. The earlier avoidance, forgotten.

_Why?_

Was it just pity for the invalid? Some kind of common human decency, which he's long since stopped believing in? Fear, that he might retaliate against them? (Did Bruce tell them, "be nicer to your brother?")

Even wandering in the dark and the rain and the cold, on that day he'd returned to life, he'd wondered where his family was. He'd wanted them, he'd wanted _this_. But, too proud, too _afraid_ , to ask after everything that happened, he kept those desires locked away.

But now he's being cared for. This is his home, his family.

And it comes out, when Bruce is - to be fair - _lightly admonishing_ him for letting things get to this point.

"I understand that you felt hurt. But you didn't need to run." Bruce explains carefully. "No matter what happens, your life is more important than other dividends. I don't care if we disagree. You're my son. I wasn't going to stand by and let this happen to you."

Burdened by doubt and unease, Jason utters the truth as best as he can manage, with words being so difficult right now. "I didn't want to see your... disappointment." _Your disappointment in me. At who I've become. An embarrassing, stupid, childish reason to avoid you, to run away._ But it was his reason, all the same.

Bruce shook his head. "I'm not disappointed. I'm worried that you're wearing yourself too thin over a moral dilemma that philosophers have been debating for thousands of years. I chose to take a stance about the value of human life, and you took the opposite stance. But I still believe that we have the same ultimate goals, we simply disagree about how to get there. You don't want to see Gotham devolve into madness, and neither do I. We're going to work together to change things. And there's no moral debate or dilemma that's going to change the fact that you're my son." 

Somehow, Bruce made things seem so simple, so trivial. Jason knew they'd be talking - probably yelling - about this again, but for the time being, the words were somehow calming. Even though Jason knew he could find ways to poke holes into that logic, and he didn't appreciate the appeal to emotion, he wasn't prepared to fight. Not today.

And he wasn't ready to leave. There was something good here, after all. And he'd almost missed his chance. 

Jason whispers, "I'm going to be here a long time, huh?"

"For as long as you need." Bruce says gently. "This is your home." he adds, as if it were a fact Jason still didn't understand.

"Home." Jason echoes, lying back against the pillows painstakingly propped behind his head.

He lets Bruce hold his hand.

Maybe he won't be better tomorrow. Things are far from perfect.

But they're going to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a second and final entry to the series ("A Life in the Family" - clever, eh?) in which there is more Jason & Bruce closure. Since we're not quite there yet. Now we've got them in the same place, but will the rift expand, or will they learn to forgive each other for past offenses? Come back and see... in a year and a half, or longer... well, hopefully not quite that long...
> 
> I'm on tumblr: astrologista


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